The Good Teacher

by Petronella McGovern

  Praise for

  SIX MINUTES

  ‘Super tense from beginning to end, this is a great read that will spark plenty of book club debate.’

  —New Idea

  ‘Well crafted and twisty, an accomplished debut novel.’

  —Canberra Weekly

  ‘Ostensibly a mystery story, with a complex plot and cliff hangers aplenty, Six Minutes is also a beautifully drawn look at parenting and relationships. McGovern invites the reader to recognise some of the unnecessary pressures we put on ourselves as parents, as well as the terrible guilt we sometimes carry over things that are outside our control.’

  —Charming Language

  ‘The perfect read … keeps you guessing until the very end.’

  —Manly Daily

  ‘Six Minutes is a book woven from unease, threaded through with an air of creepiness that starts even before the drama of Bella’s strange disappearance. As with Broadchurch, a TV series also set in an isolated community and involving a missing child, the central drama is really a frame from which to examine the effects of such an event on the local community, and how tragedy can draw out the best and worst in us all.’

  —Newtown Review of Books

  Petronella McGovern is a writer and editor who grew up on a farm outside Bathurst, New South Wales. After working in Canberra for a number of years, she now lives on Sydney’s northern beaches with her husband and two children. Her best-selling novel, Six Minutes, was published in 2019 and long-listed for the Australian Independent Bookseller Awards. The Good Teacher is her second novel.

  This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2020

  Copyright © Petronella McGovern 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 529 9

  eISBN 978 1 76106 008 3

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Christabella Designs

  Cover photograph: © Magdalena Żyźniewska / Trevillion Images

  The grateful heart will always find opportunities to show its gratitude.

  Aesop, ‘The Dove and the Ant’

  With much love and gratitude to my family, Jamie, Jeremy & Tia

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  1 ALLISON

  2

  3

  4 LUKE

  5 MAZ

  6 ALLISON

  7 MAZ

  8 ALLISON

  9

  10 MAZ

  11 ALLISON

  12 FELIX

  13 ALLISON

  14

  15 LUKE

  16 MAZ

  17 ALLISON

  PART TWO

  18 ALLISON

  19

  20 MAZ

  21 LUKE

  22 ALLISON

  23 FELIX

  24 MAZ

  25 ALLISON

  26

  27 MAZ

  28 LUKE

  29 MAZ

  30 ALLISON

  31

  PART THREE

  32 ALLISON

  33 FELIX

  34 ALLISON

  35

  36 MAZ

  37 ALLISON

  38 MAZ

  39 ALLISON

  40 MAZ

  41 LUKE

  42 FELIX

  43 ALLISON

  44 LUKE

  45 MAZ

  46 ALLISON

  47

  48 MAZ

  49 ALLISON

  50 MAZ

  51 FELIX

  52 LUKE

  53 ALLISON

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  1

  ALLISON

  Term 1, February

  Allison greeted every child by name as they came into the classroom. Day three of the school year and the terrified faces were beginning to relax slightly.

  ‘Do you want to do a puzzle or play with the blocks?’ Allison asked each one.

  While the children settled into their chosen activity, a transition from their parents to the school day, Allison smoothed out the name tag on the empty desk. GRACIE. A late enrolment. During the staff meeting on Monday, Allison had been hoping the girl would be placed in the other kindergarten class.

  ‘I’ve put Gracie with you, Allison, because you’re the most experienced,’ the principal had said. ‘She’s going through a tough time.’

  So am I.

  Allison had clenched her teeth to stop the words coming out. For God’s sake, how could she compare herself with this poor little girl?

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The principal didn’t know yet; he’d find out soon enough, along with the rest of the staff. And the parents.

  ‘We need to ensure the school is accepting and welcoming,’ Declan said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Allison tried to smile. ‘After all, that’s what we’re known for.’

  At the end of last year, Wirriga Public School had won an award for its Christmas project, 12 Days of Giving. Twelve activities to support communities in need, including a food drive for farmers in drought and a clothing collection for bushfire victims. The children and their parents had felt they were making a small difference as the TV news streamed never-ending images of Australia’s scorched landscape.

  Back then, Allison hadn’t known that her own life would be in ashes by New Year’s Day.

  ‘Ah, here they are,’ Allison announced to the class. ‘This is Gracie and her dad. Welcome to the Wirriga Wombats! A desk over here has your name on it, Gracie.’

  Allison wondered how the children would react to Gracie’s purple bandana. Earlier, she’d given them a brief explanation, and encouraged kindness and respect. Would they ask to see Gracie’s bare scalp? The girl’s face and arms were pale, unlike the other sun-kissed bodies which had spent the long summer holidays playing on the beach.

  ‘Everyone, let’s give Gracie a big welcome.’

  ‘Hello, Gracie.’ A singsong greeting from the whole class.

  ‘Gracie has come all the way from Victoria. The biggest city is Melbourne. Has anyone been there? Ask the person next to you while I have a quick chat to Gracie’s dad.’

  The father was standing near Gracie’s desk, a purple backpack dangling from his wrist.

  ‘We hang the bags on these hooks just outside the door.’ She led him to the corridor.

  ‘I’m really sorry Gracie couldn’t come on the first day,’ he said. ‘This whole move and the new hospital … it’s been crazy.’

  Luke Branson had already apologised yesterday when she’d met him at lunchtime. He’d handed over a letter from the children’s hospital about Gracie’s compromised immune system. Explained that they’d moved to Sydney for a doctor who was researching this rare cancer—and to get away from the memories. His voice had cracked when he’d said
that.

  ‘We’ll take good care of Gracie,’ she promised.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh.’

  The voice was deeper than she expected from someone in his late twenties; his hair closely cropped—shaved in solidarity with his daughter, Allison guessed. It made his eyes seem even bigger. Sad eyes full of pain.

  The little girl appeared beside them in the corridor, wrapping herself around her father’s legs.

  ‘Don’t go, Daddy.’

  Allison noted that Gracie’s socks were black instead of white. And her dress a size too big. She’d take her to the uniform shop at recess and sort her out.

  ‘Gracie, do you want to do a puzzle with Daddy?’

  As Allison led them to the puzzles corner, she breathed in deeply. Come on, you can do this. Over two decades at different schools, she’d never taught a child undergoing treatment for cancer. Why-oh-why did it have to be this year?

  Forcing a smile, she turned to the girl and her father.

  ‘Look at this golden lion, Gracie. Do you think you can put the pieces back together?’

  ‘Yes! I can do it!’

  Gracie sat cross-legged with the puzzle pieces out in front of her. Her father smiled his thanks and squatted down in one smooth motion. A gym type in his black Adidas shorts and t-shirt. Allison predicted it would take half an hour before he was able to leave. She brought Gracie’s table buddy, Evelyn, over to join them—that should ease the separation.

  ‘I have a book with a lion in it too.’ Allison showed Aesop’s Fables to the whole class. ‘We’ll sit on the mat and read it together.’

  While Allison told the story of the brave lion and the timid mouse, she watched Gracie finish the puzzle and edge towards the mat. The girl was still holding on to her father’s hand. He took her hand, kissed it and placed it in her lap. Then he adjusted the purple bandana and whispered in her ear. For the next few minutes, he stood by the door. When Gracie swivelled around to check on him, the father waved then stepped out into the corridor.

  Would she rush after him?

  ‘So the moral of this story is that even a teeny-weeny mouse can help save a great big lion.’ Allison raised her voice to catch Gracie’s attention. ‘Aesop says that no-one is too little to do good. Every act of kindness, even a small one, can really matter. Now, who can make a squeaky noise like a little mouse?’

  ‘Squeak, squeak, squeak.’ The class giggled between their squeaking.

  ‘And what about a big ROAR?’

  The boys and girls opened their mouths wide to roar as loud as they could. When they’d finished, one noise continued—the sound of sobbing.

  Allison put the book aside and squatted next to Gracie. She patted the girl’s back and explained how everyone in the class had started new this week. Allison doubted that Gracie could hear over the crying.

  ‘Evelyn, can you please pass Winnie the Wombat for Gracie to cuddle?’

  As Allison tucked the class mascot into Gracie’s lap, a head appeared around the classroom door.

  ‘Am I being as quiet as a teeny-weeny mouse?’ asked Gracie’s dad.

  The children burst out laughing. Gracie’s laugh was the loudest.

  Despite the brave smile, Allison could see the man’s heart was breaking. It wasn’t often that the father was the one trying to leave a child at kindy. He sat back down on the floor next to Gracie, put his arm around her, and stroked Winnie the Wombat. If Luke Branson had to stay until recess, so be it. This little girl needed extra-special care.

  For the next two hours, Allison didn’t think about her own problems once.

  At recess, Allison fitted Gracie with the right-sized uniform and popped three pairs of white socks into her bag. Her father had left just after ten o’clock and the girl seemed settled. At lunch, when the other kids ran into the playground, Allison led Gracie and Evelyn into the library. With her sun sensitivity from chemotherapy, Gracie had to avoid playing outside at midday.

  ‘Girls, this is Ms McCormack, our wonderful librarian.’

  ‘Okay, my lovely lassies,’ Shona purred in her Scottish burr, ‘I’ve put out some colouring-in sheets for you at those corner tables, and then I’ll read you a story.’

  As the girls chose their pencils, Allison shared a chocolate slice with Shona. The teachers covered their mouths with their hands to hide the fact that they were eating in the library.

  ‘Your hair looks great, Allison. You’ve figured out how to style it, then.’

  Two weeks ago, Allison had marched into the hairdresser and asked for a makeover. She still didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror with the short, choppy bob.

  ‘Thanks. None of my clothes go with the caramel colour, though.’

  ‘Obviously you need a whole new wardrobe!’ Shona laughed.

  If Allison could afford it, she would. This morning, she’d wanted to wear her favourite red top with the black spots—my watermelon shirt, she always joked with the class—but today it hadn’t worked. Between the new hair, the comfort eating and the perimenopause, none of her clothes sat right.

  She shouldn’t have got the stupid haircut. It was like a neon sign flashing over her head. The only person she’d told was Shona, but this morning a year five teacher had given Allison a sideways glance. A year three teacher had frowned and said meaningfully: ‘How are you?’ And at drop-off, a group of parents Allison knew from last year had all stopped speaking the instant she’d approached.

  Allison mentioned the reactions to Shona.

  ‘Stop being paranoid. And if they know, well …’ The younger woman shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Shona had only been in Wirriga for eighteen months and the students loved her over-the-top enthusiasm and quirky expressions. She’d followed her girlfriend back to Australia and didn’t seem to care what other people thought. But Shona hadn’t grown up in this suburb with family and friends literally around the corner.

  Wirriga still had that same village feeling as when Allison had ridden her bike to this very primary school forty years ago. When the suburb had been developed back in the 1960s, it was seen as an undesirable swamp full of mosquitoes, sandwiched between glamourous white beaches and a bushy plateau. Land had been cheap and the houses built big—two storeys, often with a pool. To Allison, Wirriga was the best-kept secret of Sydney’s northern beaches. An enclave of friendly locals. Cul-de-sacs where kids could play in the street. No thoroughfares to other suburbs. No tourists—they all stayed in Manly, on the opposite side of the multi-lane freeway. A short commute to the centre of Sydney but a world away from the city’s congestion. Fresh air, open space, natural bush around Manly Dam. Five minutes to the beach.

  The only downside was that everyone knew everyone, and that meant gossip was rife: between the volunteers in the school canteen, on the sidelines of the kids’ sports games, during the mothers’ morning teas, and at the picnics in the park.

  Allison had considered taking leave without pay this term, but she needed the money. Perhaps she should’ve asked for a transfer to another part of Sydney, but she didn’t have the energy to learn new systems and build new friendships. Lack of sleep was making her brain fuzzy.

  ‘I feel like such a middle-aged cliché,’ Allison moaned to Shona. ‘I’m a laughing stock.’

  ‘No, he’s the cliché,’ Shona said. ‘It’s not your fault, hen.’

  Soon, they’ll all know that I’m not enough. Not interesting enough, not smart enough, not funny enough, not clever enough, not pretty enough. Not enough to keep a husband of twenty-four years.

  And, evidently, not enough for her fifteen-year-old son either.

  Shona was reading the girls a book about a female astronaut when Allison’s phone buzzed. A text from Tony. Summer soccer back on tomorrow. Will you be there? Dinner after at the Italian?

  Usually, Allison was the one telling him about their son’s arrangements. She considered how to answer the message. A sarcastic response about his sudden involvement? A bitchy question about the new wom
an whom he wouldn’t name? No, she’d wait until after school to reply.

  And then another text, this time from Felix. Can u bring my kit & boots?

  Allison sent a quick thumbs-up; safer to let the emojis say it all.

  ‘You can be whatever you want to be.’ Shona finished the last page and closed the book. ‘You can fly to the moon like this amazing astronaut.’

  Allison gave a tight smile. Forget the sky-high ambitions—all Gracie wants to be is healthy. All I want is my husband and son back.

  ‘My mum was an astronaut,’ Gracie said.

  ‘Oh wow!’ Evelyn’s eyes widened. ‘Have you seen a rocket?’

  Should Allison pull Gracie up on the fib or just take the girls back to the classroom? When she’d asked Luke about Gracie’s mother, he’d closed his eyes and put his head in his hands for a moment.

  ‘The counsellor said to reinforce how much her mother loved her. To keep reassuring her.’ He’d sighed. ‘And we don’t discuss the tumour in front of her. That’s been our rule since Gracie was diagnosed. She knows she’s sick but we don’t want her to worry about the future.’

  We. Our. As if his wife were still alive. Thankfully, Luke hadn’t had to explain about the horrifying death. Samantha in the front office had passed on the news—a bushfire had destroyed the Bransons’ farm and their lives.

  ‘Kids can be very blunt,’ Allison had said. ‘Some will ask Gracie about her mum and cancer and dying.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He’d sighed again. ‘At least her eyelashes and eyebrows have grown back. Last year a boy at the playground called her an alien. The next round of chemo is weekly. She shouldn’t be so sick this time.’

  Life was cruelly unfair. Four-year-old Gracie should not be going through all this misery. And nor should forty-nine-year-old Allison.

  While Shona had been reading aloud, Allison opened the note from the hospital again. It sparked a list in her head. Don’t compromise Gracie’s immunity. Don’t let her get breathless. Don’t let her get injured. Don’t let her get upset about her mother. Allison yawned, wishing she had time for a coffee before the afternoon class. She’d have to be on high alert all day, every day, for the new girl.